The artificial suns
fixed in silence
in the rainless artificial sky
know of no such thing as music
or of softer tones.
So they shed their silence
to the strangers mountains
and bless the wandering conversations
of the ones who dwell in comfort
but never hear.

The wandering strangers
pass beneath their silence
pausing on the mountains
sometimes,
joining, sometimes,
with the other strangers
to weave the empty conversations
that let the music pass
in softer tones
unheard, and so alone.

They turn their eyes in vacant sorrow
yet not to see the sun
now standing boldly in the windows
to give a gift of warmth
to all who see
or hear the music drift.

And the artificial suns,
because they are,
shed more silent darkness
to curse the strangers
with their blessing.

So the room is dark and empty
as the strangers mountains fade away
into the empty fields of woven grass,
and all is not,
as the empty conversations never were.

But the music drifts in softer tones
and grows upon my ears,
feeding its living tendrils
to the hunger of my mind.
So I turn to find the windows
and the manner
of the light they hold,
as my being drifts in softer tones
beyond the fields of woven grass
and the huddled mountains
of the dying artificial suns.

They are no more,
even in the empty conversations
and the silence
of their own forgotten destiny.
But my being drifts in being
and mingles with the music
of the softer tones
that whisper:
I will be!